


Christmas Lights

by Aliea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Uni!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliea/pseuds/Aliea
Summary: Sherlock hates Christmas, hates everything about it, even the lights. So what happens when his own personal conductor of light enters his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there *waves* I have travelled a long way from Angst city to take up residency in the nice fluff town of Christmas. Its nice here, full of light, fun and laughter, probably wont stay long.
> 
> So here is a nice little love story set around the most wonderful time of year. It is most defiantly a WIP, something I am working hard on with my most wonderful friend and Beta AlwaysJohn. She is a brilliant writer and you need to go read her work, so after reading this go read some of her stuff, it is seriously good.
> 
> Comments, kudos, subscribes are always welcome and are always greatly appreciated. But all I really care about is that you enjoy!

Lights. Christmas lights. White lights, gold light, red, green, yellow, blue, all twinkling, all blinding, all everywhere, god how he hated them!

Looking up at the damn lights and blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke, Sherlock sighed as he leaned against the cold brick wall. Early December had arrived with a chill that threatened snow, adding another layer to his already deep annoyance. He really hated this time of year.

Taking another drag, he turned his attention to the people milling about on the dark street, some shopping, others meeting up for a night out or going on a date. During his last break of the evening, all of them walked past him as though he were invisible.

The cigarette halfway to his lips, Sherlock paused to focus his gaze on a couple across the street. Although they spoke in hushed voices, it was obvious to him that they were engaged in a heated argument.

Unable to help himself, he let his deductions flow as the scenario unfolded before his eyes: small, blond, perhaps only a few years older than his own eighteen years, unusual strength to his shoulders and upper body, someone only a fool would take on. The woman, also small and blonde and not unlike the man in boldness, stood her ground. An affair, hers, an act the man had only learned this night, the very night he planned to propose.

“Damn it!” Sherlock cursed, dropping the cigarette when it burnt his fingers. He glared at the offending object, finally crushing it beneath his shoe. When he focused again on the scene across the street, the man stared back at him while his companion continued to talk.

They held each other’s gaze as though it was natural, as though they had done so for most of their lives, yet Sherlock had no idea of the man’s identity, only that he’d never seen him before this night. From the distance between them, he couldn’t decide if the man’s eyes stared back at him in anger or confusion. He only knew he was unable to look away.

“John. John. Damn it John!”

The man Sherlock now knew as ‘John’ turned away, his body tense with anger.

“Fuck you, Mary.” John’s voice rose loud enough to easily hear, its tone sending a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. The man, John, pulled a small box from his jacket pocket, forcing it into her hand. “Take it, sell it, keep it, throw it, I don’t care anymore.”

For a moment John looked across the street at him, before walking past Mary and headed down the street.

Sherlock, you should have been back five minutes ago,” a voice laced with warning called out to him.

“Yes, right, sorry, Molly,” Sherlock muttered. Ignoring Molly a moment longer, he continued to watch John walk away. An odd sensation deep in his stomach shook him as he realized he would never see the man again.

.~.~.~.~.

“See you tomorrow Sherlock.” Molly said as she wrapped her overly long, multi-coloured striped scarf around her neck and waved cheerily while Sherlock made sure the coffee shop doors were locked.

“That scarf is ridiculous,” he called as she walked away.

“Tell that to Tom Baker,” she shouted back with a giggle.

“Who?” He frowned, not catching her reference.

“Doctor Who! Look it up genius.” She laughed as she disappeared around a corner.

Shaking his head as he tested the doors one more time, then pocketing the keys, he recalled the work day now past. The shift had gone slowly, especially the last few hours when the crowd died down. By then, only a few couples on dates, or the lone Uni student, hoping to stay awake, walked through the doors. At least it gave Molly and him the chance to sneak in a few hours of study for themselves before tidying up and prepping for the next day.

Hefting his bag a little higher on his shoulder, Sherlock looked up at the Christmas lights again, and sighed. Soon the shops would remain open longer, the evening shift would become busier and he’d have to interact more frequently with people. He grimaced at the thought. Sure he got on with Molly, but she was smart, something they both had in common, and though she was a little quirky, they got on well. She had a crush on him, but she never let it get in the way of their friendship. Molly was the only person he didn’t rub up the wrong way, and she was his only friend.

As he turned off the main street and headed toward his small flat, he let his mind wander, going over his studies, thinking about his next paper and hoping that the labs stayed open over the Christmas period to give him a chance to work without his vacuous classmates. If not, he at least had a key and the code to the alarm.

So deep in thought, his feet guiding him on the walk they knew so well, Sherlock wasn’t aware he’d been followed until someone grabbed his bag.

At once alert, Sherlock spun to face his assailant, and collided with a fist to his temple. Falling to the ground, his head hit the pavement with a thud. All thoughts scattered as his vision blurred and pain overtook him. Closing his eyes, he lay still, trying to breathe through the pain.

“Hey!” An angry voice shouted a warning, followed by the sound of running footsteps.

Groaning, Sherlock tried to move, but strong hands pinned him down by his shoulders.

“No, don’t move, just...lie still.” The voice was closer, calm and concerned.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, the vibration of his own voice setting his head spinning.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Strong hands turned gentle as fingers feathered at his temple, making him jump. Sherlock’s eyes flew open for a moment to catch the image of a man, concern obvious in the downturn of his brows. As he tried to focus on that face, his world tilted again and he closed his eyes.

“Easy,” the man whispered. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“No,” Sherlock wanted to protest, but it sounded more like a whimper.

“Looks like he hit you pretty hard, you’ll have a nasty bruise, and you also hit the back of your head. Would you let me see how bad it is?”

“Do you have to?” he heard himself ask as he tried to open his eyes. Nope, world tilting, he thought, closing them for the moment.

“Listen, I’m a doctor, I can help.”

“Trainee, fourth year. Not quite a doctor yet.” Sherlock muttered.

“How did you know that?” The man slowly lifted Sherlock’s head with one hand and gently touched his scalp with the other.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry. You have a rather large gash on your head and it’s bleeding a lot. You really should go to hospital.”

“No...I live close by. Could you help me get home?”

Silent for a moment, his rescuer hesitated. “Okay, do you have someone there to watch you for the night?”

“Sure,” Sherlock lied.

The almost doctor helped Sherlock to sit up. He was finally able to look up at the man, and as his image became clear in the glow of the streetlight, Sherlock stilled, his eyes widening as he took in the face of the man he had seen earlier in the night.

“At least you recognise me, so no memory loss,” John said with a warm smile as he got to his feet and held out a hand. “Easy up.”

Sherlock looked up at John’s face, then down at his offered hand before taking it. John’s hand was soft and warm, but strong, his smaller fingers wrapping around his hand, and helping him slowly to his feet.

“Steady,” John cautioned as Sherlock found his centre of gravity, a task not taken lightly when the whole world seemed to tilt at the most inappropriate times. Like right at that moment. Stepping forward, Sherlock let his eyes close as he felt his body beg to lie down again, but refused to allow it. John had a hand on his waist now, folding him into an embrace.

“Let me know when it passes,” John quietly as he held Sherlock in his arms.

They stood like that for a time. It helped that he focused on his hand that now rested against John’s chest. His fingertips felt not only the rough fabric of the coat, but also the heat of John’s body and the steady beat of John’s heart.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” Sherlock whispered.

John smiled. “Adrenaline. I ran quite a distance when I saw you were in trouble.”

“Ah,” Sherlock replied, confused about the disappointment he felt.

“Do you feel up to walking?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Let me grab your bag,” John said, moving away and taking his hands and his warmth with him.

“John?” Sherlock called out, feeling adrift when his anchor disappeared.)

“I’m here.” John’s hand returned to him, this time to his face. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

Obeying John’s request, he gazed into eyes the deepest blue he’d ever seen.

John frowned. “I really wish you would let me take you to hospital.”

“No.”

“Okay, which way?” John asked, concern heavy in his voice as he turned his head in both directions.

“Left,” Sherlock replied, turning to go that way and finding his feet slow on the uptake. “Oh.”

“Yeah, lean on me.”

“John, you’re five foot nothing and I’m a six-foot giant.”

“Yes, but still, lean.”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, doctor.”

They walked slowly. John carried the bag on his shoulder and kept his arm around Sherlock’s waist while they walked. Sherlock leaned against him to keep himself upright as well as to soak in his warmth. He’d just been on the pavement, in December, at night. At least it wasn’t snowing. He shook his head. Even his thoughts were cold enough to stutter.

“So, how far?” John asked.

“Just a few more blocks. It’s on Baker Street.”

“Baker Street? And you work at a coffee shop?”

Sherlock knew at once what John implied. Baker Street was central London. It wasn’t cheap. He was impressed that John had observed that he worked at the coffee shop.

“Working is part of my deal with my parents. It’s that or halls.”

“Right. So, you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“So, no one to look out for you.”

 _Damn!_ _Caught up in his own lie._

“Err, well, not exactly.”

John nodded. “Right.” That simple word and the gesture sent a wave of guilt through Sherlock.

As they reached Baker Street, Sherlock indicated where to go and John guided him to the black door.

“Keys?”

“Pocket,” Sherlock said, indicating his front trouser pocket to which he was pretty sure John muttered: ‘Of course it is.’

As John quickly and impersonally fished out the key, Sherlock steadied himself on the handrail outside the door.

“Okay?”

“Yes, but could you please stop everything from spinning?”

“Sure, as soon as we get inside.”

“Excellent news.”

Getting in was easy. Sherlock heard John’s sigh as he looked around, and frowned at the stairs.

“You live up there don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not at all surprised. Right. Let’s just...here.”

Normally Sherlock would have nodded his understanding, but he just grunted instead as John manoeuvred him until his arm rested over John’s shoulder. As they approached the stairs, John circled his free arm around Sherlock’s waist.

Trusting that John would guide him safely up the stairs, Sherlock let John lead the way, all the while wondering what it was that made him trust John so quickly.

Once inside the flat, John dropped the bag beside the door and glanced around the sitting room, but Sherlock couldn’t care about the mess left from the morning, or the current experiment on the kitchen table. He just needed to lie down.

"Sofa or bed?”

“Sofa is fine,” Sherlock said, once again trusting John to guide him.

John rested a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

Sherlock waved his arm in the direction of the kitchen as he lay down. “Under the sink.”

Settling onto the cushions, Sherlock listened to John moving around the kitchen.

“Fingers,” John said in a low voice, and closer than Sherlock expected it to be.

“Sorry?” Sherlock looked at John, with eyelids heavy and uncooperative.

“Human fingers. In the sink. In water...decaying.”

Sherlock opened his eyes a bit wider to look up at John who stood with the first aid kit in hand and a shocked look on his face.

“Experiment, ‘tis fine, trust…I...oh.” Sherlock moaned as the room began to spin again, forcing him to close his eyes.

“Okay, now this is serious. Your speech is slurring and you have let a total stranger into your flat. Please, let me get you to hospital.”

“Be fine. Sleep…let me sleep.”

No, you can’t sleep yet...I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock liked John’s voice. It was nice, soothing, warm, even when filled with concern. “Sherlock, my name is Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” John repeated.

It was nice to hear someone say his name without the ‘piss off’ precursor.

“Right, well, Sherlock, I’m John and I’m going to have another look at your head. Can you turn onto your side for me, facing the sofa cushions?”

“Of course, John.” Sherlock turned to the back of the sofa, allowing John to look at his head. Capable fingers moved through his hair until they found the wound. Sherlock hissed at despite John’s gentle touch.)

“Sorry,” John said as he applied pressure to Sherlock’s scalp. “Need to stop the bleeding before doing anything else.”

“‘s fine.”

“Sherlock? Sherlock…don’t you dare pass out on me.”

John’s stern voice sounded like he was at the opposite end of a long tunnel and fading fast. It was the last thing Sherlock heard.

“Sorry, John,” Sherlock said as his world went black.


End file.
